


White Light Is Just Window Dressing, The

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Character Study, Pre-White House (West Wing)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-07-28
Updated: 2000-07-28
Packaged: 2019-05-15 20:02:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14797022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: Josh has an unusual conersation with his grandfather.





	White Light Is Just Window Dressing, The

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

The character of Josh Lyman is the property of Aaron Sorkin; thanks for letting  
me borrow him for a bit.

No teaser for this one.

The White Light is Just Window Dressing by gaggit

The steady bleep, bleep, bleep of the cardiac monitor suddenly changed to a  
steady, shrill whistle, and the green peaks flattened out to indicate that Josh  
Lyman’s heart had stopped beating. Galvanized into action, the green-garbed  
medical personnel swarmed over their patient with hypodermics full of  
epinephrine and the defibrillation paddles. "Clear!"

On a conscious plane the inert form registered absolutely nothing. But whether  
it was on an unconscious, metaphysical, ethereal, or spiritual plane, Josh was  
aware of something very unusual occurring around him, and it was terrifying. If  
he could have screamed around the tube in his throat, he would have. In a  
blinding flash of clarity, Josh realized this must be what it was like to die,  
and he also realized he was totally unprepared for it. He had been immersed in  
the tenants of Judaism for the first fourteen years of his life, but a streak of  
rebelliousness that had gotten him expelled from his exclusive private school  
had also initiated a questioning of the faith he had simply taken for granted up  
until then. During his stint in boarding school, Josh had learned some useful  
skills: the basics of the three R’s, how to blow a smoke ring, and how to pick a  
lock and a pocket. As punishment for being expelled, his father had decided to  
send Josh to public school, and it was there that he learned to think critically  
about himself and his world. But as a result of this introspection, he had  
drifted away from the spirituality of the temple, the rabbi, and the God that  
had allowed his innocent sister to die in a fire. He had never gotten around to  
coming to terms with God and mortality and the hereafter, and now it was  
probably too late.

Josh became aware of a pressure on his left hand. He focused his attention  
there. All he could see was a disembodied forearm, but he recognized it  
immediately by the faded blue numbers tattooed there. "Grandpa," he croaked,  
surprised that he could make a sound. The hand picked up Josh’s arm and rotated  
it a half a turn, revealing a corresponding set of miniature numbers on the  
inside of his wrist. His grandfather’s voice drifted down to him and asked, "Why  
did you have those numbers tattooed on your wrist?"  
"How did you know they were there?" Josh asked. "I had it done after you died."  
"It’s obvious that I know, Josh. Why did you do it?"  
"So I wouldn’t forget."  
"Forget what?"  
"You......History......"  
"You needed a tattoo to remember?"  
"No. It was a symbol, a statement."  
"Of what?"  
"Your courage and perseverance.......our heritage....I don’t know.....Grandpa,  
am I dead?"  
"No, Josh."  
"Then how can you be here talking to me?"  
"Must you question everything, Joshua? Just have faith, boy."  
"In what?"  
"In yourself and what you really believe in. Don’t forget the past, but don’t  
live in it either."  
"Can you help me do that?"

"More questions, Josh?" a new voice asked. "You really should have been a  
lawyer."  
"I’m just trying to understand," replied Josh in a resigned tone, not really  
surprised when his father materialized at the foot of the bed. "You sound like  
you are still mad at me."  
"Why would I be mad, Josh?"  
"Because I liked public school? Because I wrapped your Vette around a tree?  
Because I never practiced law? Because I left Joanie to die? Because I always  
disappointed you?"  
"That’s your perception of things, Josh, not the reality of the situation. But  
these things are all immaterial now."  
"What is important here?"  
"It’s important for you to know that I love you, Josh."  
"I never doubted that."  
"Have you ever been in love, Josh?"  
"Yes."  
"Then why are you alone?"  
"My job demands all my time."  
"That’s a convenient crutch. What’s the real reason?"  
"Everyone I ever really loved and counted on died on me."  
"There really are no guarantees in life, Josh."  
"Are you taking me with you, Dad?"  
"Where?"  
"To wherever you’re going."  
"That’s not up to me, son."  
"Who is it up to?"

"You’re still asking questions, Josh," laughed a female voice on his right. The  
voice penetrated his ears across more than twenty years. Turning his head to  
the right, he gasped in shock. He was expecting Joanie to be fourteen, but  
instead there stood a woman of about forty.  
"Joanie? How can you be.....?"  
"No more questions, Josh. Just listen. The statute of limitations on guilt has  
run out. Now it’s up to you. You have to get busy living or get busy dying."

A surge of electrical power surged through Josh’s chest, causing his body to  
heave off the gurney and thump back down. His family winked out like some  
cosmic hand had pushed the power button on the remote control. It was dark and  
cold, and he searched in vain for the comforting white light he had read about  
when he’d become fascinated by the fine line between science and religion.  
Wasn’t he supposed to leave his physical body and follow them? Weren’t they  
supposed to beckon him to follow? Weren’t they supposed to show him the future  
complete with a son who had engineered global peace? Weren’t they supposed to  
tell him what to do? "You didn’t answer my questions," he tried to shout after  
them, but the tube in his throat prevented it. He thought he heard a trio of  
voices answer, "Yes, we did." before the total blackness engulfed him. 

The second jolt of electricity from the defibrillator’s paddles slammed through  
Josh Lyman’s body. A split second later, the shrill whistle of the cardiac  
monitor was replaced by the friendly bleep, bleep, bleep, and the flat green  
line climbed to a sharp peak.

The End. 

  

  


End file.
